


Doctor Who Prompt Fills

by countessrivers



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Cuddling, Dub-con elements, Kidnapping, M/M, Maneating plants, Minor references to imprisonment restraint and non-consensual drugging, Minor touch starvation stemming from being the last of their species, Not so much memory tampering as it is memory withholding i guess, Of the codependent and occasionally exasperated kind, Paradox machines allow for whatever you want, Same for the kissing, chip thievery, gratuitous LOM reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25708246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: As the title says, a place for my longer Doctor Who prompt fics from Tumblr. Tags and warnings will be updated as necessary.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor | John Smith/The Master (Simm), Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	1. Falling Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> From a 'Cuddling' writing meme. The prompt was "Falling Asleep". Set in a vague post-LotTL or post-EoT AU.

The Doctor hovers in the doorway to the Master’s room, not quite ready to step over the threshold, and not quite sure if he should be there at all.

He’d lain in the dark for far too long, exhausted, but unable to fall asleep. A cup of tea, reading, counting Ood, none of it had helped, so eventually he’d given up and let himself be pulled out of bed and down the corridor. The door had opened at his touch, which he’d optimistically taken as a sign because he knew the Master _could_ lock his door, had enjoyed doing so in the past, and the fact that he hadn’t… 

They’ve been circling each other, binary stars caught in orbit. Nothing so neat as even elliptical orbits, but on and on, round and round. In and out, running and chasing, over and over for centuries, across galaxies, neither one of them able, or even wanting, if they’re honest, to break free. It’s been like that their whole lives, but now that they’re the last ones left, acting for all intents and purposes as each other’s keepers, it’s more noticeable.

Gallifrey may be gone, but the two of them remain locked in orbit.

And he likes to think that their orbits are shrinking, those moments where they swing close, when they’re not at each other’s throats, when he glimpses brilliance and humour and familiarity in the Master instead of simply anger and violence and pain, coming faster and more frequent.

Decaying orbits always end in collision, but the Doctor prefers to look at it more optimistically than that. There are all kinds of collisions.

Things are different, to be sure. He’s never quite travelled like this before, not even when he had other Time Lords in the TARDIS, though that was mainly because he never had to worry about Romana slipping off and overthrowing the government of whatever planet they had landed on so she could install herself as supreme ruler. And he doesn’t dare think of the Master in relation to the term ‘companion’ in the other Time Lord’s presence, lest he catch the stray thought and take insult, but in truth it’s become something not entirely unlike his life before. They’re seeing the universe. The Doctor is simply a lot more careful about where they land, and there’s more security procedures in place.

It will never be like it was. They’re not children anymore, they’ve both seen and done too much for them to ever truly go back. But they’re here, alive, the two of them, and that has to mean something.

The Doctor certainly likes to think so.

Which is why he’s here, standing in the dark, in his pyjamas, trying to make himself step through the door. He doesn’t know if he’d be welcomed though, is the thing. If all the not so subtle flirting had been nothing more than a way to needle him. If the panic in the Master’s eyes as he’d collapsed from a blaster hit to the side two days ago had been imagined, and the exasperated “idiot” to which he’d woken to in the sick bay shortly after was more cutting than fond outside of his own hazy recollections.

Maybe he should just go back to his own bed.

“Fine.”

The Master’s voice in the dark takes a second to properly register, the Doctor not entirely sure he didn’t imagine in.

“Get in. Your thinking and lurking is keeping me up.”

“Uh…”

“Unless you’re here to smother me with a pillow and are just trying to work up the nerve?

“What? No. Of course not.”

There’s a sigh from the direction of the bed, and the Doctor hears the Master shift.

“Then shut up and get in.”

The lights of the room brighten just enough for him to make his way over, and when he hesitates again at the edge of the bed, the Master lifts the sheet in obvious invitation. The Master lays back down as he slides in, and the Doctor decides that since he’s been given permission, he’s going to go the full mile.

He rolls over towards the middle of the bed, pushing into the Master’s side and laying his head on his chest. He throws an arm over his waist and tangles their legs together so that he eventually ends up half lying on top of the other Time Lord. The Master makes a somewhat disgusted sound, but he doesn’t push him off, or make a comment about how bony he is, so the Doctor takes it as a preformative reflex.

He lets loose a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, letting himself relax, settling now that he’s where he wants to be. The Master isn’t quite stiff beneath him, but the Doctor notices his fingers tapping restlessly against the sheets, and wonders if maybe he wasn’t the only one struggling to find rest. Instead of drawing attention to it, he reaches over and picks up the Master’s arm, manoeuvring it so that it falls across his back. The arm hovers, noticeably tense. He says nothing though, and soon enough it softens, curling more fully around him, fingers no longer tapping, but stroking gently instead.

The lights drop, leaving the two of them once again in darkness. There’s no sound except for their matched breathing, until-

“I should smother _you._

The Doctor smiles, and falls asleep to the steady sound of the Master’s heartbeats.


	2. First Cuddle + First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A double prompt fill from the 'Cuddling' meme. Prompts were 'First cuddle' + 'With a first kiss'. Alternate ending to EoT

“Get out of the way?”

“You said it first.”

“No, I know. It’s just… That’s rather…”

“However it is you’re planning on finishing that sentence, I suggest you don’t.”

The Doctor opens his mouth like he is going to do just that, but then clearly reconsiders and shuts it instead. He’s looking appealingly roughed up, face and hands covered in cuts and bruises, those big, doe eyes wide and staring at him, like he’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing. Surprise always has been a good look on the Doctor, this one in particular, but there’s an undercurrent of something there now that sets the Master on edge, that makes him want to run.

He hardly has the strength for that though. It’s enough of a struggle to roll over and sit himself up against the edge of the platform.

They’re alone now, the humans, including the Doctor’s old man, having all scarpered. The other Time Lords are gone too, from the universe and his head, the quiet particularly noticeable having so recently felt them again. It’s only the Doctor left, hovering at the edge of his consciousness like he’s physically hovering on the other side of the room. He’s a familiar, steady presence. Not pushing, or even prodding at him, just _there_.

It’s… nice.

Or at least, not completely awful.

It’s just all so quiet. Quieter than it has been in a very long time.

Because the drums are gone. For the first time in what feels like forever, the drums are silent. He searches his own mind for the sound, tentatively at first, then with more urgency when he’s not immediately bombarded by them.

But they’re not there. He even tries to purposefully recall the sound, the pain, the feeling of the relentless noise pounding inside his head, getting louder and louder until he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He can remember, but it’s distant, veiled, and the drums themselves don’t return.

They’re gone.

Maybe it was the sealing of the time lock, or the destruction of the white point star, but for whatever reason, they’re finally gone.

The Master lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut as he takes in the all-encompassing silence he’s only ever known in death. It’s different now, because although he currently feels like death warmed over, he’s not. He’s alive. He’s alive and he has won.

Diseased?

Rassilon can take his staff and shove it up-

So engrossed in revelling in his victory, he doesn’t hear the Doctor approach. It isn’t until he sits down next to him, knocking their shoulders together, that he notices.

“You saved my life.” The Doctor’s voice sounds raw, and the Master has a sneaking suspicion that it’s not entirely to do with all the yelling.

“Did I?”

If the Master keeps his eyes closed, it has nothing to do with not wanting to meet the Doctor’s gaze or face any of the sentiment he’s sure is there. He’s tired, is all.

“Rassilon could have killed you. You could have been pulled back into the Time Lock with them.”

The Master scoffs.

“The size of your ego, Doctor. It had nothing to do with you. They ruined my life, called me _diseased_. I wasn’t going to let that stand.”

“Uh huh.”

The Doctor’s tone is one of disbelief, and it’s infuriating enough to have him turning to glare at him. The Doctor just looks back, face far too open and earnest.

And the thing is, it’s not a lie. The Master was, is, thinking fondly about choking the life out of Rasslion, watching him die and regenerate and then maybe having another go at it. He wants Rassilon dead, wants the whole damn council dead. Wants to tear them apart with his bare hands and his teeth. He wants them begging for his mercy, wants to make them suffer for what they did, for using him again and again, and then tossing him aside. For using _both of them and_ -

“Well, whatever your motives, you saved my life. So, thank you, Master.”

He really wishes the Doctor would just shut up. Even the sound of his name on the Doctor’s tongue isn’t enough to quell the annoyance. He doesn’t want to examine the flash of rage, the desperation he felt when he saw Rassilon raise his glove, so determined to destroy the Doctor if it was the very last thing he did. He doesn’t want to think about what it was that pulled him to his feet when it would have been so easy to stay down, to let them all go out together. He doesn’t want to dwell on the Doctor’s face as they stared each other down, the barrel of a gun between them, his own eyes infuriatingly wet as he spat out every taunt he could think of, so sure the Doctor wouldn’t, couldn’t, choose him.

And then the relief when he did.

He doesn’t want to think about who he is, who they are, now that the drums are gone, that Gallifrey is gone, that they’re here and alive and alone and the only two left. No humans, no hostages, no plans in-between them.

Just them.

He doesn’t want to think about it, and he certainly doesn’t want to talk about it

“Master, I really think we should-”

Oh, for the love of Omega.

Drawing on what little energy he has left, he turns around, grabs hold of the Doctor’s jacket, and pulls him into a kiss.

The Doctor’s shocked enough to let himself be moved, and doesn’t fight so much as flail is hands around a bit before sinking into it, opening his mouth for the Master’s tongue as he clutches at the ratty hoodie.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this. Literal lifetimes, and certainly the first time in these bodies, but it’s, what’s the phrase? Like riding a bike. The Doctor slides a hand around his back, letting out a soft moan when he bites his lip. The Master slips his own hand under his jacket, feeling a heart race beneath his palm, pulling him closer with an arm around his waist until the Doctor is practically in his lap.

The Doctor looks a little dazed when they pull apart. He opens his mouth, and the Master is torn between admiring how wet and full and red it is, and swearing at him for not taking the hint. Though he supposes that if the Doctor isn’t going to shut up, then he’ll just have to kiss him again.

He doesn’t have to though, because instead of speaking, the Doctor leans down and wraps his arms around him, burying his face in his neck. The Master doesn’t to anything as ridiculous as flail, but he’s not entirely sure what to do with his hands so they end up hovering awkwardly in the air.

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you.”

The Doctor’s words brush against his neck, so close that he can feel his lips moving on his skin as he speaks.

“Well stop.”

He should probably push him off, but the way the Doctor’s arms tighten around him suggests that he won’t be easily moved.

‘Make me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here, if anyone's interested.


	3. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the 'Cuddling' meme. Prompt was 'In the Dark'. Set in the early days of The Year That Never Was, between TSoD and LotTL. A tad darker than the last two.

The Doctor is back in his correct body, has been for about a week, but it hasn’t presented him with any fresh escape opportunities, because from the moment he’d recovered from the transformation, he’s been kept restrained in some way, or drugged.

He’s moved around too, never left in the same place for long. Usually kept within the Master’s line of sight during the day, or at least nearby, if sitting at his feet is technically outside of his direct sight line, but at night in particular it varies. And like everything on Earth now, it all very much depends on the Master’s mood.

He’s in a room of his own this time. It’s pokey, and rather basic, but it has a bed, which is a definite upgrade from the tent. Still not the most comfortable place he’s slept, but certainly not the worst. It helps that he’s not currently handcuffed or tied down, and the sedatives he was given this morning have mostly worn off. The lights have been switched off too, leaving him in the dark, but that just makes it easier to rest and recenter himself.

The Doctor’s well aware though that it’s an illusion of leniency, or perhaps disregard, as he knows there are two guards just outside the door, and likely at least one Toclafane. Even if direct escape _was_ on his mind, he wouldn’t be getting very far.

It’s almost impressive, the lengths to which the Master was going in order to not give him an inch. The Doctor is tempted to view that as him learning from past mistakes, justified paranoia, and maybe in part it is, but mostly, he knows the Master is simply afraid.

The Master is terrified of him, of what he might do. He’d deny it, lash out at the accusation, but the Doctor knows, can tell. He’s sees it sometimes clear as day, in the Master’s face, in his eyes, and it breaks his hearts, because the Master is right to fear him, but not in the way he’s thinking.

He would _never_.

There’s a click as the door to his room unlocks, and the Doctor has to close his eyes against the blinding brightness of the hallway lights as it slides open. He doesn’t need to look to know who’s standing in the doorway. He can feel him.

Think of the devil…

The door shuts behind the Master, plunging them both back into darkness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see even the vague outlines of the room, the dark too deep for even his heightened senses to fully manage.

The Master stands by the door, silent, with a tension radiating off him that puts the Doctor on alert. He wonders if he should play at being asleep, or if the Master is waiting for something in particular. Neither one of them move, or speak, the only sound in the room the reverberating hum of the ship’s engines.

It’s because of the quiet that the Doctor notices the Master’s breathing is faster than his own, uneven too, like he’s agitated. The silence stretches on, and the longer it does, the more unnerved the Doctor becomes. He’s not afraid, though he too would have every right to be. More…concerned.

“Master?” he eventually asks, voice pitched quiet and low, loath to fully disturb the stillness, but unwilling to let the silence continue.

There’s a sigh, but it’s not the pleased sound that usually follows him speaking the other Time Lord’s name out loud. There’s a weight to it, a heaviness, and it’s something he’s not heard from the Master in a very long time.

“How do you stand it?” The Master’s voice is matched to his own, he too seemingly deciding to keep the strange atmosphere between them intact.

“What?”

“Being around humans.” The Doctor can hear the distaste in his voice, can picture clearly the narrowed eyes and the twist to his mouth as he says the word. He still doesn’t raise his voice though. “Eighteen months I had to hide here because of you. Over a year, surrounded by their stink and their noise, all those dull, pathetic little minds. Pretending to be one of them”

The Master’s voice, hissing as it is, falters ever so slightly at the last, and the Doctor wonders if maybe spending a lifetime as a human had more of an impact than the Master would like to admit. Not that the Master has ever had a particularly high opinion of humans. The majority of Time Lords didn’t, unfortunately, and add to that the Master’s long-standing jealous-like approach to anyone he spent time with, or showed the slightest affection or appreciation for…

Still, there’s something off. Something more, that has the Master noticeably disquieted in a way that has brought him here, in the middle of the night, to him.

“You married one,” is all he says in response. Which is the very least of what the Master’s done, and does, with Lucy, as the entire ship could easily attest to. He doesn't seem to mind _her_ company.

“Lucy was useful, and conveniently ambitious. She’s…tolerable, as humans go. And she leaves me alone if I tell her to. Unlike the others.”

“What others?” The Doctor decides to sit up, now that it’s clear they’re having a proper conversation. He shifts back to lean against the wall, bending a knee to wrap his arms around. There’s no way the Master doesn’t hear him move, but all the same, he remains by the door.

“All of them,” the Master continues, voice still pitched low, but with a growing level of noticeable ire. “The guards and the staff, even the Toclafane. They’re always there, wherever I go. They’re just _there_. Dozens of them. Every room, every corridor is filled with them. It’s unbearable.”

The Doctor makes note of the strange inclusion of the Toclafane in the Master’s complaint, given that all they seem to do is sing his praises and kill on command. He still hasn’t worked out precisely what they are, though he has his suspicions, but every time he thinks on them, his mind inevitably circles back around to the Master’s warning, his insistence that the knowledge would break his hearts. It’s not stopped him, but he can’t help but dwell on it. The Master knows him as well as he knows the Master. He knows exactly the kinds of things that would hurt him the most.

Beyond that though, he thinks he has an idea of what has brought the Master to his room. More so, he even understands.

He imagines telling the Master he could just leave, if being around humans bothered him so much. He imagines offering to go with him, offering to help dismantle the paradox machine so they could leave, the two of them leaving Earth behind, leaving everything behind. No humans, no companions, just them. Two Time Lords together.

He’d do it too. It would be hard, but he’d do it, and in truth, would never look back.

“They burn, don’t they, Doctor?” The Master’s voice suddenly sounds much closer, and with a start he realises that he’s approached the bed. He can see the outline of him, the shape of him, so close now, but he still cannot make out his features. The bed dips under the Master’s weight as he sits on the edge, and the displacement has the Doctor tipping towards him.

Maybe it’s because he can’t see, but the Doctor’s singularly aware of their current closeness, of the way they’re only a hair’s breadth from touching. Because the Master’s not wrong. Humans run so much hotter than Time Lords, so much so that it can sometimes feel like scorching. For the Doctor it’s become almost normal. Something that can be uncomfortable at worst, but otherwise, just a peculiarity of humanity. Something that’s different, but manageable, and not necessarily off putting.

But sometimes they do burn, sometimes it’s too much, and there are moments where the Doctor misses the familiar touch of his own kind more than anything.

Before he can think better of it, he reaches out a hand and places it on the Master’s back. The reaction is almost immediate. Instead of stiffening or pulling away or lashing out, the Master exhales, sinking back into the touch.

Encouraged, the Doctor leans in closer, sliding his hand up and feeling the play muscles under his fingers and his palm as the Master rolls his shoulders back. He feels over the Master’s shoulder blade, hand moving across and around to the front, never breaking contact. He shifts again, pressing up against the Master’s back, hooking his chin over his should as he places his hand over his right heart.

This too, the Master more than allows. He tilts his own head back, angling it towards the Doctor’s in a way that has his cheek brushing against his temple. When the Doctor brings his other hand to wrap around his middle, the Master’s fingers find his wrist, pressing against his pulse, like the Doctor, feeling for the proof of two beating hearts.

Even this close it’s still too dark to see much, but it doesn’t matter, because the Doctor doesn’t need to see the Master to enjoy, despite everything, having him here. He could close his eyes and it wouldn’t make a difference because he would still be able to feel him. Feel his heart beating beneath his hand, feel the comfortable warmth of him, the solidity that all proved he was real, that he was there. He’d still be able to smell him, listen to his breath, touch the very edges of a mind that was like no other.

“Doctor.” The Master mouths it almost silently against his skin, fingers around his wrist tightening, but no where near painfully.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here, if anyone's interested.


	4. On the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late cross-posting for the 'Cuddling' meme.
> 
> Prompt was 'On the floor'

As escape attempts go, it wasn’t his best. But then, escape, or more specifically, long-term escape, wasn’t really the point of the exercise.

Rather, it was a way to keep the Doctor on his toes, to remind him that the Master has in no way been tamed. That the Doctor needs to keep his guard up because he is dangerous, a threat, and most certainly not one of his pathetic little human pets that follows him around all wide-eyed and simpering and admiring.

And it started off well enough. A sedative slipped into the Doctor’s tea, a rudimentary laser screwdriver cobbled together from bits and pieces he spent the previous two days swiping, a minor fight with the console to get the door open, and he was out.

Unfortunately, the Doctor’s temperamental, uppity, junkpile of a ship proved more stubborn, and prone to shocking him, than expected, so it had taken him longer than he would have liked to unlock the door. More importantly, he’d misjudged the dosage, which is why, not 100 meters out from the TARDIS, he’d heard a shout as the Doctor rushed out after him. 

He’d fired blindly over his shoulder as he took off running. The affronted yell as the Doctor dodged the blast was expected, as was the Doctor giving chase, but what wasn’t expected was just how quickly he would catch up. Or that he would literally tackle the Master to the ground once he did.

Though the loose dirt beneath them was relatively soft, they’d hit the ground hard, though presumably less hard in the Doctor’s case as he’d had someone beneath him to cushion the fall. The screwdriver had gone flying out of his hand as he’d instinctively tried to keep from completely face-planting, the Doctor’s weight knocking the breath out of him.

“What are you doing?” The Doctor had yelled in his ear, hands trying to pin him down as the Master bucked underneath him.

The Master had managed to get an arm free, which he’d immediately used to elbow the Doctor in the stomach. He’d tried using the distraction to knock the Doctor off his back, but unfortunately the other Time Lord had just collapsed further on top of him.

The situation had rapidly devolved from there.

The Master was currently reaching for his screwdriver while the Doctor yanked on his belt and tried to half climb over him to grab it first. He threw his head back, hoping to headbutt the Doctor in the chin, but he misses, and ends up instead with a bony knee digging into his back as the Doctor reaches over him.

He sees the Doctor’s hands move overhead, scrambling at the dirt in front of them for the weapon. His reach is longer, his fingers closer to the screwdriver, so instead of giving him the chance to grab it, the Master pushes up and rolls, knocking the Doctor off balance. He uses the momentum to keep rolling, throwing himself on top of the Doctor and pinning him down.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, leaning down to smirk in the Doctor’s face. “I’m leaving.”

The Doctor actually has the nerve to roll his eyes, his frown less angry and or upset than the Master would ideally like.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yeah? Feel free to try and stop me.”

“I’m going to.”

The Master had forgotten for a moment that he was wearing a tie. Similarly, he’d failed to notice that it had slipped out of his waistcoat and was now dangling free.

The Doctor, unfortunately, does notice.

The Master chokes as the Doctor jerks on his tie, pulling it, and him, downwards. He tries to pull back, while simultaneously raising a hand with the intention of slapping the Doctor across the face, because how dare he, but the Doctor pulls on the tie again, this time to the side, while lifting his hips up so that he can roll them back over.

They land with the Doctor kneeling over him, the Master’s tie still in his grasp. He sits down, pinning the Master with his weight, but he makes the mistake of leaving his arms free, so the Master takes the opening to reach up and fist his hands in the Doctor’s hair, enjoying the resulting yelp as he pulls it. The Doctor lets go of his tie to pull at his hands instead, blunt nails scratching at him as he tries to make him let go.

The Master just pulls harder, bending the Doctor’s head back and baring his neck. He loosens one hand from the Doctor’s hair so he can wrap it around his throat, and feels the Doctor clamp his knees tighter around his waist in response. The pressure almost hurts, so he squeezes his hand just a little bit more. The Doctor only narrows his eyes, teeth ever so slightly bared, so the Master jerks him down and flips them again.

The Doctor almost immediately wraps his annoyingly lanky arms and legs around him and rolls them back over.

Screwdriver very much forgotten, they keep rolling, keep clawing at one another, neither staying on top for long. There’s the repeated sound of tearing fabric as they both try to grab hold of one other, and more importantly, keep hold. He does end up slapping the Doctor, the crack loud and satisfying, but the Doctor retaliates by digging his fingers into his shoulders in a way that has his arms going numb.

At one point he ends up sitting on the Doctor’s back, grinding his face into the ground, and his fingers evidently stray too close to his mouth because the Doctor bites him. The Master jerks away, swearing , almost shocked, as he looks over the visible imprints of the Doctor’s teeth on his hand, and it’s distraction enough for the Doctor to push him off.

The Master’s not sure what finally brings them to a halt, but they eventually both seem to notice at the same moment exactly what they’re doing, and how they’ve ended up. They’re practically laying on top of each other, both flushed, both out of breath. The Doctor’s on top, one arm trapped underneath the Master, hand gripping the back of his jacket, the other holding his shoulder. The Master once again has a hand in the Doctor’s hair, his other arm wrapped around his waist.

There are smears of dirt across the Doctor’s face, along with a swiftly darkening bruise on his cheek from where the Master slapped him. He’s missing the top three buttons of his shirt, the left sleeve of his jacket is only half attached to the rest of it, and his hair looks like, well it looks like someone’s been pulling at it.

He’s a mess, and the Master doubts he’s in any better condition. But it’s a rather appealing mess, and his body seems to be a few steps ahead of his brain because he slowly becomes aware that he’s half-hard, with no clue on how long he’s been so. Fortunately, from the way the Doctor’s looking at him, he’s inclined to think it might be mutual.

For clarity’s sake, he slides his hand down the Doctor’s back to squeeze his arse, and he’s rewarded with a soft moan, and an answering hardness dragging against his own. The Doctor’s hand moves from his shoulder to his neck, fingers curling around the back as his thumb brushes his jaw, and the Master uses his grip on the Doctor’s arse to pull their bodies closer.

He’s ultimately not sure if he’s the one that pulls the Doctor down into a kiss, or if the Doctor leans down on his own.

(So ultimately, not his best escape plan, but also not his worst.)


	5. Sea Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill (with a very Australian interpretation) for the tumblr prompt - "sea change"

“I want a sea change.”

“A what?”

“A sea change,” the Master repeats as he steals a chip from the Doctor’s pile and pops it into his mouth. “I think we should move closer to the sea.”

“So, by ‘sea change’, you literally mean-”

“I wish to change our location to one closer to the sea, yes. It’s a thing humans do, I figured you’d be all for it. And your little script says that the TARDIS will eventually come to us, so it’s not like we have to stay put.”

“Okay, fair point.” The Doctor slaps the Master’s hand away as he reaches for another chip, curling an arm protectively over what’s left of his lunch. “But where did you even get the idea?”

“There was this intern working on my political campaign,” the Master shrugs. “She was around a lot, and very chatty. Reminded me of that small, mouthy one you had back when you were blond and walked around with vegetables pinned to your jacket. The one that threw a knife at me that one time.

“Do you mean Tegan?” The Doctor is fairly certain that’s who he’s talking about, but he’s tempted to tell the Master he needs to be more specific. On both counts.

“Oh, who can keep track of all your groupies.” The Master eyes the still half-finished package of chips, frowning when the Doctor pulls it closer to himself. “Anyway, she kept going on about how her parents back home were moving away from the city, moving to the coast where it was quieter and more relaxed, and frankly, right now that sounds like an amazing idea. It’s bad enough we’re stuck on Earth, in the 1970s of all decades, but I’m not staying in Manchester for another eight months. We’ve been here for almost two and I’ve had enough.”

The Doctor would have to agree. Being without the TARDIS was bad. Being, albeit temporarily, stuck in a time period where the technology was, to be perfectly honest, primitive by Time Lord standards, was extra bad. And like in most scenarios, having the Master stuck with him was both a good thing and a bad thing. It helped to have someone to bounce ideas off of, to have someone else capable of cobbling together equipment and scanners as needed, and honestly his knack for hypnotism had been useful in helping them get by, but at the same time, it was the Master. Who hated getting stuck anywhere, who particularly hated getting stuck on Earth, and who had a habit of getting mean or destructive or both when grounded. Or bored.

He really hates Weeping Angels.

“Ideally,” the Master continues. “We’d leave England all together, go somewhere with an actual summer and actual beaches, but I’ll settle for getting out of the city.”

It does sound nice. Almost like a holiday even, and like the Master said, events are already set. They know the TARDIS is going to come to them, they just have to wait it out. Maybe a change of scenery wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Now,” the Master says around the chip he’s managed to sneak while the Doctor pondered his suggestion. “Sex on the beach isn’t anywhere near as good in reality as the drink, but…”


	6. This Was a Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for the tumblr prompt 'TenSimm - This was a mistake'

“This was a mistake. This _is_ a mistake. I shouldn’t- _Oh!_ I shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t-”

“You say that every time, Doctor. Every single time, and yet you keep coming back.”

The Master hikes the Doctor’s leg up further, pushing and bending it down until his knee is practically at his shoulder. The stretch burns, but in a way that feels far too good. His other leg shakes where it’s curled loosely around the back of the Master’s thigh, his hands gripping at any part of him that he can reach.

Each thrust, each slide of the Master into him has his fingers clenching, nails surely leaving marks, but it’s fine, because the Master leaves marks of his own. Enjoys doing so. Bruises on his thighs and hips. Imprints of teeth on his shoulders and chest.

Nothing they can’t hide beneath clothes, they’ve both agreed to that, but there all the same.

It’s terrible. _He’s_ terrible. He’s lying to everyone. Not just allowing the Master to roam free, but meeting with him. And worse.

They’re the only two left. The Doctor is the only one capable of stopping the Master, of holding him to account. Of holding him at all. But he’s not, because the Master will not be kept and the Doctor cannot let him go, not completely. So, he sets the Master free in the hopes that he will come back to him. Keep coming back.

Which he does.

They both do. They can’t help it.

Whether it’s in the ruins of the Master’s latest coup, or some far flung planet he’s tracked the Doctor to, or by chance or appointment, they keep finding each other. Keep coming together. And they’ve never stopped each other from leaving. Never taken more than what is offered, never, in those moments, tried to interfere with what comes next.

It’s a balance they’ve never been able to create before, and the Doctor is sure that sooner or later, it’s all going to collapse. There’s no way they can sustain this, not for as long as he might like, not for forever. But for now, this is what they have, no matter how wrong, how insane, how foolish it is. No Time Lords, no Gallifrey, no companions, just them.

And despite everything, despite his conscience, despite sense, despite how many times he says it out loud and how everything in him screams time and time again that what he’s doing is wrong, that he’s betraying everything he is and everyone he knows, the Doctor can’t stay away.

He doesn’t want to.

The Doctor had seen Jack not long before the ‘meeting’ prior to this one. It had been an accident, a coincidental crossing of paths, but it had been nice. To talk, to laugh, to catch up. It had warmed his hearts to see him doing better. Not great, his losses, both recent and not, still sitting heavy, but better. He’d missed Jack.

And maybe something had shown on his face the next time he’d seen the Master, maybe the reluctance, the shame, the hesitation, had sat heavy enough to be noticed, because the Master had been particularly through. Had deliberately brought him to orgasm again and again and again. He hadn’t been gentle, or even overly considerate, just there and overwhelming and consuming, and it had been everything the Doctor had wanted.

And the Master hadn’t mentioned Jack at all.

It had been a kindness, maybe, as much as the Master was capable of, a distraction from his thoughts. Or maybe a torture. Making him feel good so that later he’d feel worse. A reward even, for the proof that the Doctor had chosen him. Had come back despite the guilt, despite what Jack had, and was, offering.

Quite possibly a mix of all three, with at least another two motivations likely thrown in as well. But whatever it was, it had felt _good_. Better even.

The Master’s grown a beard since then, like the ones he’s had in bodies previous, and the feel of it on the inside of his thighs, on his stomach, his chest, against his cheek, is as new as it is familiar as it is perfect.

He buries his face in the Doctor’s neck as he chases release, thrusts speeding up, mouthing words against his skin in a language now only they know. The Doctor’s leg is still caught between them, but the stretch, the angle, the almost-pain works, and he clutches at the Master’s hair, rocking his hips in time, urging him on just as much as he’s working himself up.

It’s a mistake, the Doctor knows it is, and in the long run who knows what the consequences will be. But for now, it’s one he can’t help but make. One he knows, despite everything, he’ll keep choosing to make.


	7. Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for the prompt 'Overgrown'

“Huh,” the Doctor muses to himself aloud. “I’d forgotten this was even here.”

The TARDIS had a few gardens, he knew that, but he honestly had a hard time keeping up with exactly how many, and where. Rooms had a habit of changing and moving and merging almost at random, and there were parts of his ship he hadn’t visited in years.

The room he’s currently in is very much reminiscent of a botanical garden greenhouse, plants of all kinds, from all different planets, lining the winding paths. It is somewhat overgrown though, which is understandable given that he can’t remember the last time he even visited. The room itself may ultimately be self-sustaining, but the trees can’t really trim themselves. Tendrils and creepers spill onto the pathways while taller branches from either side meet overhead, blocking out the artificial light.

The Doctor hears the soft sound of lapping water nearby, and follows it until he finds a pond, its surface dotted with enormous lily pads and white flowers that give off a sweet smell almost like pineapple. As he wanders past, further into the garden, he tries to listen past the buzz of insects and the chirp of birds, because the Master is in here somewhere, but the Doctor has yet to see any sign of him.

He’s not worried, exactly. If anything he’s closer to annoyed, given that the Master has been avoiding him for two days. And the Doctor will normally leave him alone when he’s in such a mood, but the TARDIS had alerted him to the Master’s location, with a gentle suggestion that he had best go find him. She usually only did so when the Master was in particularly bad shape, mentally and/or emotionally, or when he had done something more dangerous and destructive than usual.

Given his chosen location, he might be planning to poison him again.

(He’d done it once. Nothing too deadly, just something slipped into his tea that had left him weak and dizzy and collapsed on the kitchen floor.

“Just a reminder,” the Master had said, kissing him on the cheek before wandering off and leaving him there.

He hadn’t tried to steal the TARDIS, or even leave it, but the Doctor had understood the message all the same. Not that he hadn’t before, but the Master seemed reluctant to take him at his word, preferring instead breaking things and semi-gentle, semi-murder attempts as a way of letting the Doctor know he was not to be considered weak or a prisoner.)

The Doctor keeps following the path, eventually reaching a secluded corner with a stone bench tucked away beneath overhanging branches. He stops short when he notices an open book lying face down in the dirt, and rushes forward when he spots what looks like a body half-hidden in the bushes behind it.

It’s the Master, he knows immediately. The other Time Lord’s eyes are closed, and for a moment the Doctor panics, before quickly noticing that they’re deliberately screwed shut and that the Master is still very much breathing, tension clear on his face.

Dark green vines lead from deeper in the foliage to wrap around the Master’s body. Two have wrapped around his legs, from his ankles to his thighs, while others curl over his torso, his arms, even his neck. From the scuffmarks in the dirt, the Doctor can tell he’s been dragged.

Dropping to his knees beside him, the Doctor reaches out. The Master’s eyes open at his touch, and while they are glazed, they’re mostly aware. He’s blinking sluggishly though, and the fingers that tug at the hem of his trousers are weak.

“Are you okay?” the Doctor asks, and the answering glare is as good as an answer.

He flinches as he feels something brush against his ankle, looking down to see another emerging vine reaching for him. It’s slow moving, but the Doctor edges back all the same. Rising to his feet, he pushes past the tangle of branches to find the rest of the plant.

The thing is huge, taller than him at least, with multiple purple-red leaf flaps curled in on one another. Around a dozen long vines of various thicknesses trail from the opening in the center, most pointed towards him, but a few leading off in other directions, searching for food elsewhere.

It’s stunning, utterly beautiful, even if the smell isn’t quite as nice, and even if it is currently trying to eat the Master.

“Carnivorous plant,” he tells said Time Lord when he returns to his side. “Sap contains a toxin that dazes, and in large enough doses, paralyses pray, allowing it to, well, catch and eat anything that wanders close enough.”

“I wasn’t wandering,” the Master says slowly, eyes flicking down to where the Doctor is scanning the vine around his right leg with the sonic screwdriver. “I was sitting and reading.”

“Did you touch it though?”

“It touched me.”

“Absorbed through the skin. Right, okay.” The Doctor scratches at his jaw while he thinks it through. Trying to force the vines loose poses the risk of them reflexively constricting and snapping the Master’s bones, even possibly his neck. He fiddles with the settings on the sonic screwdriver, looking for one that’s likely to work.

“I should have stayed in the library. Why do you even have a giant carnivorous plant in here anyway?”

“You’ll be fine.” He pats the Master hip before pressing the end of the sonic against the vine wrapped around his stomach. The vine trembles when he switches it on, but it doesn’t clamp down like the Doctor feared it might. He flicks the sonic up a notch and watches as the vine slowly starts to unwind.

“Come on,” he says a little louder, turning his head and speaking in the direction of the body of the plant as he moves the sonic up to the vine at the Master’s neck. “You don’t want to eat him, do you, you beautiful thing? He’ll taste terrible. Trust me, you’re better off looking elsewhere.”

“ _Rude_ ,” the Master murmurs. “I’d taste great. That stupid plant would be _lucky_ to eat me.”

“Would you stop, please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is here.


	8. Scarecrow (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for the prompt 'Scarecrow'
> 
> Technically John Smith/Master, and somehow became a part 1 of 2

John raises his gun, pointing it at the creature shuffling towards him. His hands are shaking, from fear and horror most likely, but there’s something in the back of his head, something that tugs at him, that doesn’t like the weight of the weapon in his hands.

He must fire though, and he does, the bang of the discharge loud, almost deafening. The creature jerks, but doesn’t fall, so John shoots again. He is alone, cornered around the side of the school, and though he can hear the shouts and the screams, he knows they are too far away to be of any help.

John fires again, and again, the scarecrow stumbling with each hit, but continuing to move all the same. The gun clicks, signalling that it’s out of ammunition, and John thinks of the boys under his care, of Joan and Martha. He fears for them, struggles to push back at the creeping horror that these creatures might have already gotten to them. That they might have been vanished, destroyed like Mr Chambers had been back at the dance hall.

The creature, the scarecrow closes in on him as he fumbles to reload his gun, and in that moment, John is certain that he is dead, that the creature is going to kill him, or else drag him back to whatever it was that had taken Baines’ form.

But instead of hands closing around his neck or his arm, there is a high-pitched whine, and the smell of metal, followed by burning straw, fills the air. The scarecrow twitches, then collapses, smoke drifting up from the lifeless pile of canvas and straw.

John looks up to see a man stepping out of the shadows. He lowers his arm, his hand holding something metal, and John knows, automatically, without pause, that it’s what killed the scarecrow. He knows that it’s a weapon. It looks nothing like the horrid gun used to kill Chambers, but stirs the same feeling, the same knowledge in him.

It is not of this world, not of this time.

And the feeling extends to the man himself.

The stranger, dressed in a black suit that also feels out of place, sneers down at the fallen scarecrow. He has dark hair, cut short, and a round face, and John finds himself thinking, distantly, that he is rather handsome. Even when sneering.

He feels like a threat though, for all that he appears to have saved his life. There is something about the man that makes John want to run, even as he wants to grab hold of him. He is familiar, in a way John cannot name, or even understand.

John takes a step back, and the man’s head jerks up at the movement. He feels caught by the man’s gaze, pinned in place, and the smile that stretches across his face is not much better than the sneer.

“Well, look at you.”

John would swear that he has never heard this man’s voice before, but he knows it all the same. It tugs at something in him, reverberates around inside his head.

The man steps towards him, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, seemingly at ease, uncaring of the little war going on around them. John can still hear the screams and the shouts and the bursts of gunfire, but it’s almost like it fades away, dims in the presence of this man.

“Who are you?”

The man steps in close, close enough that John can feel the puff of his breath on his face. “You know who I am.”

John shakes his head. “I really don’t.”

“Of course you do. It might be buried along with everything else, but it’s there. You know exactly who I am.”

John thinks, strangely and out of nowhere, of his friend, his childhood friend, back in Nottingham. The boy with dark hair who used to run across the fields and rolling hills with him. Who’d get into trouble with him, and then help him get out of it. The one he’d trusted, and loved, above any other.

His best friend. His closest friend. His only true friend, really.

But it cannot be him

The eyes are different, for one. One set blue, one golden brown.

And why, if they are – were – friends, does John feel as much dread as he does a strange joy, at seeing him?

The man in front of him cannot be his old friend, the friend whose name John suddenly cannot think of, whose fate he suddenly cannot remember.

There is another word, though, a name, a title on the tip of his tongue, that makes as much sense as anything else he’s seen tonight, but that feels right all the same.

The man, the stranger, his apparent saviour, raises a hand to his cheek. John flinches at the touch, at the chill of the man’s skin, but he follows him, caging him back against the brick, hand still on his cheek.

“Human almost looks good on you.”

John thinks about answering, about questioning the strangeness of the comment, but then there are fingers pressing against his temple and his world goes black.


	9. Memories (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Memories'
> 
> Follows on from the previous chapter, and again, technically more John Smith/Master than straight Doctor/Master.

John wakes lying on a bed. Consciousness is slow to return, his limbs heavy and thoughts muddled, even as he forces his eyes open.

He remembers the scarecrows. The screaming and the running and the gunshots. Martha and Joan.

A hand on his face, fingers at his temple, then everything going dark.

The man.

John turns his head to see him seated in a chair across the room, twirling what he recognises as his old fob watch between his hands. He’s shed his coat, his suit jacket too, leaving him in a crisp white shirt, a black tie still knotted around his neck.

He’s watching him, and John has a feeling that he’s been watching him the whole time he was unconscious. John stares back as he gently levers himself up, sitting back against the headboard. He casts his gaze around the room, looking for clues as to where he is, but he feels drawn back to the man, unable to look away for long.

“John Smith. You never were very creative, Doctor.”

John flinches, dread twisting in his stomach, less over the stranger knowing his name, and more at the repeat of that word.

The name, the title, whatever it was, given by Baines and the others. By Martha too. The word from his dreams, those fantastic, impossible dreams where he was something else. The creatures had wanted this ‘Doctor’, and had waged war on the school, _killed_ , in their quest to find him.

And now he was in the company of a man, a stranger, who called him the same.

He looks human (and isn’t that a mad thought) he looks normal, but so had the others. So did he, _the Doctor_ , in his dreams.

And they’re dreams, just dreams, but John has seen scarecrows kill, seen a gun completely disintegrate a man. He’s heard his family maid speak of things beyond this realm, things she should have no knowledge of, and despite everything, he can’t quite convince himself that she’s mad.

John’s not sure what’s real anymore.

“Who are you?”

The man smiles, and it’s a pleased, sharp thing.

“I told you, you already know.” He leans forward, forearms on his thighs, hands still palming the watch. “Come on, I know it’s in there.”

“Where am I? Where have you taken me?” John feels annoyance rising in him His head aches, and he is afraid, but the stranger’s insistence on being cryptic, on refusing to make sense, is starting to grate.

“It’s only been a few months, hasn’t it?” The man brushes past the question entirely, tilting his head to the side as his gaze drifts over him. It feels like a physical thing, and John has a contradictory urge to both bask in it and hide from it.

“You didn’t start from scratch, just slid in as you were, hiding while you waited for them to die. How lucky.” The man’s face shifts, mouth twisting in distaste, if not disgust. “Didn’t take you long to find another human pet to moon over, though. Greedy too, given that you already had one. That, at least, hasn’t changed.”

His face softens as he leans back in his chair, most, though not all, of the bitterness draining away. “It’s almost comforting, actually, how little things change, how little _you_ change. Except for the face, of course, which I will say, I like.”

He grins, like they’re sharing a joke, but it’s one that John doesn’t understand.

This man isn’t human, of that John is sure. He also clearly knows him, for all that he’s refusing to answer straight.

“Are you- Are you with them?” John’s not entirely sure how to describe the things they left behind at the school. Animated scarecrows and little girls acting like monsters, killing and calling for his head. ‘Them’ seems like a serviceable enough word.

And this man may have killed a scarecrow, may have seemingly saved his life, but he’d also kidnapped him

The man only snorts. “I’d be insulted at the comparison to those little parasites, but I know you can’t help it. You’re working with a human brain right now after all. Can’t really be expected to keep up.”

“Stop.” John squeezes his eyes shut, as if that would stop all the talk of humans and non-humans.

He is John Smith. A human, a good, normal man, with a job and a life and a childhood. It is real. _He_ is real. Not the Doctor, _him_.

“Poor thing, you must be so confused.”

When John looks, the man doesn’t appear at all sympathetic. If anything, he seems to be enjoying it.

“Here, lets see if this helps.”

Without warning, the man opens the watch. Brilliant gold light spills out, twirling in the air between them, and John watches, rapt, unable to look away. He takes a deep breath in and-

_\- the Doctor scrambles across the bed. He doesn’t know where he is. His body feels wrong, feels too human. He’s not settled in it._

_Memories, 900 years of life swirl around inside his head, fighting for a place, each trying to slot back in right._

_Something’s happened, something’s gone wrong. It’s too early, too soon. He’s not safe yet._

_Where’s Martha? Martha should be here. He can’t be alone. Why is he alone?_

_But he’s not alone._ He’s _here. He’d taken his human body, taken the watch, and opened it._

_He’s alive. It’s not possible, but he is. He’s here, the Doctor is looking at him._

_“Mas-_

-ter.”

John doesn’t hear the click of the watch snapping shut, but he thinks he might feel it, somehow. He finds himself backed up right to the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t remember moving. The man is standing next to him, leaning against the bedpost, watch in hand, and John doesn’t remember seeing him move either.

His head is aching, spinning, and he would swear he can hear whispers. A voice, a hundred voices, ten voices, whispering to him. He listens, strains to hear, to understand the words, but they fade into nothing as fingers take hold of his chin and tilt his head up

Looking up into golden-brown eyes, John knows now, who this man is, who he is to him. He knows his name.

“Master.”

A thumb brushes across his bottom lip, and it makes perfect sense to open his mouth and let it slip inside.

“I think I’ll keep you like this, just for a little bit longer.”

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here, if anyone's interested.


End file.
